Artist: Beanie Sigel f/ Journalist, Major Figgas
Album: Philly's Finest (Promo) 12"
Song: Philly's Finest
Typed by: PhiladeLfigga@yahoo.com
(mixed and scratched sample)
P-H-I-L-L-Y, North, West, Southwest South side
P-H-I-L-L-Y, Give it to them bitches and niggas who stay fly
[Verse 1 - Beanie]
You know my flavor
Low linen double s gators
Jeans ripped on purpose
Moure written in cursive
Tool shirt with the belt to match
Four pound send shots through your Celtics cap
You know me, B. Sigel with that lethal spit
Fuck around and get your people hit
Tek 22 see through clip
Niggas know who I creep through with
Major niggas, you know, Major Figgas
I roll them corners and drop four birds with four words
Niggas get the flippin
Before niggas get the missin
I'm known for that duct tape, rope and pistol whippin
Back door, dope and coke from when boat ship in
It ain't no tellin what I do for a trunk of crack
Told y'all dudes that I'm quick to trunk a cat
You know my tools, either the pump or the mac
Catch me at your kids school playin Uncle Mac
[Verse 2 - Journ]
Yo what you think I couldn't shine on you cause your chain glistenin?
When they said the name Journalist you wasn't listenin
Change the condition of the Range that you sittin in
Pull out the pistol in, shoot out your Michelins
Leave you in your boy Rover with a poor odor
Journ, slim bulldozer with the broad shoulders
Week into your tour I'ma call your broad over
Before she hit the salon, bustin the whore rollers
You tryin to play the fast role
Dawg you an ass hole
Your chick gave me your cock, cigar and your bath robe
Test the circle, beat you till your purple
Then have my man search you from your hat to your workboots
Fam fuck you and the cats that co signed you
Catch you while you on your Ducotti and clothesline you
Tryin to cop a spot like the one they shot Tony in
Journalist for Doo Wop, the true Mitronian
[Bridge - Dutch]
P-H-I-L-L-Y
Why should we tell y'all why?
Where why and how we ride?
P-H-I-L-L-Y
[Verse 3 - Gillie]
A'yo rap cancer, flow sick I flow iller
My goal is to move more units than Thriller
Its G-D-K slash God damn killer
slash Gillie Da Kid
Nigga can I live?
Guns keep, never get rid
Did a minor bid
Only for one week
A Thug let his gun speak
Real player, never fall in love with a freak
My raps is like crack, I distribute to the street
O's in the form of flows, China Whyte
You say I'm okay, your chick think I'm dynamite
She love my flow, she love my clothes
When it come to them, I'm like Snoop "I don't love them hoes"
See my niggas cop cars, watch flooded with stones
Knowin that my voice'll probly sell a million alone
Nigga bout robbin Gillie? Un uh, pullin the chrome
Aimin straight at your face then I'm killin you holmes
[Verse 4 - Dutch]
MF it don't get no realer than that
See the jails got my niggas I'm takin em back
Serve em out for any smoker who got taste for the crack
I'm takin it all, whether its a safe or a pack
I'm layin you down, whether its a eight or a mac
See I love to bust guns, but I hated the sound
and I muzzled em up dawg just to quiet em down
Where my West coast niggas at? Shots to the ground
Where my East coast niggas at? Safes's and pounds
I got, pimp in my walk nigga, pimp in my talk
Dawg I bust you niggas first before my players fall
I'm already called it quits, don't want it in no more
Put the gun to my head, blaow say fuck it all
You can't get no women player, they don't want a war
You can't sell no cane dawg, you too damn soft
Me I sell it all player, from the hard to soft
You just a boss player, tryin'a roll with boss
[Bridge]
[Verse 5 - Bump]
Seems like you don't know how much life is left
Till I revolve six in your chest
start at your vest
Send you into cardiac arrest
chokin, weezin
What gave you the idea that Bump wasn't squeezin
Bump ain't packin? Bump ain't holdin?
Bump won't put it in your face leave it swolen?
Do it for the paper, yeah players hate my hustle
Young nigga, chrome 38 I hate to tussle
Six hundred platinum skates from the muscle
Keep work on the strip, shit I live to the hustle
Step my game up to a bird from a bundle
Football shit, cook wrong nigga fumble
Blocks on the shoes, twelve on the wheel
Cris till I spit in the club with the steel
I hope you niggas thinkin Bump J won't kill
You be dead on arrival
Nigga no survival